


excuses

by tydaze



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Achilles can't deal with his sexuality, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Patroclus goes through some shit, Underage Drinking, a LOT of dumb boys being angsty in parked cars, no beta we just die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24084628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tydaze/pseuds/tydaze
Summary: Achilles is good at making excuses. Patroclus is better at pretending he believes them.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 94
Kudos: 280





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first SOA fic! I've wanted to write about them ever since I finished the book. This one is pretty short but I do have a longer fic in the works which will probably (?) be out soon, plus I might add more to this high school au if I get some more inspiration. Anyway, I love Achilles and Patroclus so damn much!! Enjoy :)
> 
> *Edit: Originally this was only going to be a one-shot, but some people seemed to want more from this story, so I'm going to add a couple more chapters :)

Achilles is good at making excuses; for other people, for himself. His actual excuses may not be good, but at least he can continue to make them.

The first time Patroclus and Achilles kiss is at a party when they're totally wasted and Achilles has lost his macho straight guy persona. It's one kiss that they both refuse to acknowledge, that keeps them awake at night and that might be the weirdest thing to happen to both of them. But it's okay, because Achilles is very straight, Patroclus is very uninterested, and one kiss doesn't mean anything.

Two kisses make things a little harder. Three kisses and they’re pushing it. Four kisses and they’re still making excuses, they’re just not as good this time. By five they aren’t even counting anymore. How did they even get to five?

They fall into a strange and strangely familiar routine. Every Saturday they’ll come to the same shitty house parties, always separately. Patroclus will sit with Briseis on the opposite end of the room while Achilles downs beer after beer until he’s finally drunk enough to stagger over and wordlessly tug on Patroclus’ sleeve. It’s an unspoken request that Patroclus is happy to oblige.

Every time Patroclus gets up to leave he turns back to Briseis, and every time she gives him the same look. The look that says _he’s using you_. And maybe Achilles is using Patroclus as a fucked up way of dealing with this closet case complex he has going on, and this definitely won’t amount to anything, but…

…Patroclus can’t help but think that this is the best he’s going to get. So he just smiles at her and lets Achilles drag him out of the party to his beat-up car.

Achilles gets in the car and Patroclus pauses as if this will be the time he walks away. He never does, of course. _This is the best you’re going to get._ He slowly climbs into the passenger seat, and when Achilles has made sure no one is watching them, they drive away.

They drive along the dark streets in silence, Achilles drums his fingers on the steering wheel as they listen to the same mix tape of songs that have never seemed like something Achilles would listen to. Songs with melancholy, almost haunting lyrics that don’t match the boy who was just doing keg-stands half an hour earlier. They park the car somewhere even darker and that’s when Achilles will turn off the ignition and lean over and kiss Patroclus in a way that isn’t sloppy enough to be drunk but isn’t gentle enough to be sober. Always holding something back.

And that’s fine, because Patroclus knows that if Achilles didn’t, they’d both dive headfirst into a place where Patroclus could develop _actual feelings_. And that is the one thing he cannot do. He needs Achilles to hold something back, because that’s what keeps _him_ holding back.

Fooling around at one in the morning in some jock’s car; that’s the best Patroclus will ever get. So he kisses back. And they keep kissing and getting closer together, and Achilles’ hand snakes up Patroclus’ shirt like he wants to do more than just kiss. Patroclus’ breath will catch and something seems to click in Achilles’ brain every time. A realisation that’s he’s no longer keeping a part of himself reserved. A realisation that this is more than a drunken mistake.

He’ll pull away and wipe his mouth and won’t look at Patroclus. Then he’ll rub his eyes and say the same poor excuses that seem to be more for himself than for Patroclus. _I’m so drunk. I’m so wasted. I’m so high._

Achilles is good at making excuses. Patroclus is better at pretending he believes them.

At least after Achilles finishes his rambling monologue full of half-assed excuses of why he’s still doing _this_ , he offers to drive Patroclus home. At least he can do that.

There’s no real feelings anyway, so why should Patroclus expect any more than that? Why should he want any more than a ride home? So he just nods and doesn’t say a word. Achilles always asks Patroclus for his address even though Achilles probably knows it by heart, and then they begin the drive to Patroclus’ house.

Though as they both know by now, it’s not where they’ll end up. Because Achilles will always miss the exit, and he doesn’t even try to pretend like it’s an accident anymore. 

He’s good at making excuses. But there are no excuses, good or bad, that make up for why they end up climbing through Achilles’ window and why Achilles pushes Patroclus onto the bed and takes off his shirt and kisses Patroclus everywhere that’s not his lips. They’re getting dangerously close to letting go, to not holding something back, and it’s only the sleeping parents downstairs and Achilles’ mumbles of _I’m so drunk, what am I doing_ , that keep them from opening the floodgates.

They never go any further, of course. They wake up too close together with aching hangovers and Achilles recites the same excuses like a personal prayer. _I was so drunk, I was so wasted. I don’t even remember what happened._ As if he can’t see exactly what happened by the fact that they’re both lying inches apart in Achilles’ bed.

Being hungover takes away the rose-tinted glasses, and that’s when Patroclus realises that he’s tired of listening to Achilles pretend like they’re not doing anything, that he doesn’t want it. He pulls on his shirt and rolls his eyes. _Whatever, man._ Then he climbs out the window and they both promise themselves that this is the last time. No more excuses.

They spend an entire week pretending as though it didn’t happen and won’t happen again. It’s easy to pretend as though someone doesn’t exist when the only contact you have is when you lock eyes once a week in a crowded hallway. So they both pretend like they’ve never even spoken before. Saturday rolls around and the whole charade begins again. The same cycle of denial and excuses and kisses that are just a little too much to be mistakes.

Achilles is good at making excuses. But Patroclus thinks they’ve kissed one time too many for Achilles to be able to make a decent excuse for it.

So, this is the best he’s going to get. Kissing a boy who is so deep in the closet he’s practically in Narnia, not being nearly drunk or sober enough, pushing down the hope that this might be the time Achilles decides not to make any more excuses. This is it.

It’s not enough. It’s never going to be enough, but it’ll have to be. Because Patroclus knows Achilles will never kiss him without the precursor of him being drunk, or high, or both. So he settles. A part of him waits.

Achilles is good at making excuses. Patroclus is getting sick of listening to them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I added in the last chapter this wasn't originally meant to be a chapter fic, but a few of you wanted to see Pat and Achilles get a happy ending, so I thought I'd write a couple more chapters. I know these first few chapters are pretty angsty, but if you can be bothered to stick it out I promise things are going to get better for Patroclus (and even Achilles, although he's not being very nice rn). Feedback is welcome, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warnings:  
> Swearing, minor use of homophobic slurs

The morning after always hurts infinitely more than the night before.

As Achilles watches Patroclus climb back out his window he quickly becomes aware of his pounding headache, stiff joints and the bitter taste in his mouth. It makes him irrationally angry, every single part of what he did and what he keeps doing. He wants someone to blame for the ache in his stomach and the splitting headache and the fact that he keeps doing stupid shit. He kind of wants to blame Patroclus.

_ Patroclus didn’t make you drink all those beers. Patroclus didn’t make you get into the car. Patroclus didn’t make you take your shirt off and kiss him. _

He rests his head carefully between his legs, trying to take slow, deep breaths.  _ ‌Breathe, Achilles, breathe _ .

He keeps doing _ the thing _ . The thing he also keeps saying he’s not going to do. He keeps doing it and every time he does it he wakes up thinking that this is the time he’s going to stop. 

_ He’s not- _

He’s not gay. There’s no way in hell he’s gay. He’s not even into guys. It’s not that he doesn’t support gay people, he tries not to care, but he’s just not into guys. He doesn’t even know why he keeps doing  _ the thing _ . It’s a stupid drunk thing he does, it has to be. He’s just stupid and drunk. Except now, when he’s stupid and far too sober.

He crawls out of bed, shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight as he makes his way to the kitchen. He makes it as far as the hallway bathroom before his mother stops him in his tracks.

“What time did you come home last night?” It’s less of a question and more of a command to answer. 

“10:40.” Just before curfew.

Thetis stares him down, her hawk-like eyes looking for any signs that he’s lying. Finally she nods curtly and stalks past him.

She couldn’t have seen Patroclus leave the house, could she? Even though he’s sure she didn’t see anything his stomach still turns at the thought. She seems to know far more about him than is humanly possible, and he  _ really _ can’t have her know about this strange habit he’s gotten into. Or anyone else.

He’s going to take this to the grave, that’s for certain.

“Patroclus? Are you awake?” Briseis calls out in her sing-song voice. Patroclus groans and throws a pillow over his head and grumbles in response.

She’s standing in the doorway, holding a glass of water in one hand and an aspirin in the other. He grabs them both, almost spilling the water onto his lap as he sits up. 

“Be careful!” She scolds, but she’s not angry. Not at him, anyway. For a moment they sit in silence, just drinking in each other’s presence. Finally Patroclus speaks up with a voice that’s cracked and scratchy and sore.

“Did my Dad let you in?”

She nods. “He still thinks we’re dating.” She adds.

“Good.” Good for his dad to think they’re more than just friends. Good for his dad not to know what he really does in the backseat of people’s cars and who he does it with.

“Are you okay?” She asks, her voice filled with concern. “Did you and Achilles...”

He goes quiet. “Yeah. But it’s the last time. I’m sick of doing… y’know, he does  _ seem _ to want to do stuff, at first anyway, but then suddenly he’ll freeze up and it’s like he just… physically can’t, or whatever. It’s getting exhausting.” 

“He’s an asshole, Pat. I know everyone loves him, but he’s an asshole. You could  _ absolutely _ do better than him.” Patroclus sighs. “I know, I know, but-”

Briseis knows his reasoning well by now.  _ There aren’t any gay or bi guys around here. There’s no one else, I’ll take what I can get. _ Maybe that was enough for the first or second time around, but it’s been weeks and Briseis can see the holes in Patroclus’ story more clearly than ever. Sure, their high school isn’t exactly filled with guys Patroclus could date. But they do exist, they just don’t tend to advertise themselves. No, Briseis thinks that maybe the real reason Patroclus is settling for Achilles isn’t because he has no other options, but because he thinks this is the only option he’s worthy of. And it hurts, because he could do so much better. He just doesn’t seem to want to.

“Promise me you’ll stop seeing him. He’s just going to hurt you, you know that.”

Patroclus pauses. “I won’t. Promise.”

Briseis pulls him in for a bear hug that’s almost too tight. She knows Patroclus doesn’t need defending, but she still feels a little protective over him anyway. He scrunches his nose but doesn’t pull back, and for a while they just sit there, leaning on each other and looking out at the early morning sky. Patroclus smiles. It’s the best hangover he’s had in a while

Achilles’ week ends up being pretty painful, to say the least. He gets the mark back for his biology quiz and barely passes, of course. His football team loses at the week’s game and his coach spends the rest of the time yelling at them, and then Thetis gives him an hour-long lecture when he gets home.

Everything just feels out of place, like the world has tilted slightly off its axis. He isn’t used to losing, at games or school or life in general, and he’s learning the hard way just how much it hurts. So, he decides on the one solution that doesn’t involve him having to try and put everything back in place; getting drunk enough that the only thing he can remember is his own name. 

It’s a terrible idea. 

It’s the only idea he has, though.

He arrives at the house party of the week and he drinks and drinks, and drinks some more, anything to keep himself from thinking. He cracks bad jokes and flirts shamelessly and feels like he’s on top of the world, even if he’s really right at the bottom. He’s used to being treated like a god, he might as well act like one. 

A few shots later and his brain decides that it would be a great idea to go and do  _ the thing _ .

_ You said you wouldn’t do this. Don’t go over there!  _ He yells at himself, but it’s like his body is no longer being controlled by his brain (or, at least, not by the  _ rational _ part of his brain). He sets his cup down and makes his way towards Patroclus whilst alarm bells go off in his mind.  _ You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this, stop being stupid- _

He puts his hand on Patroclus’ shoulder, trying to keep himself steady as he sways back and forth under the flickering lights. Patroclus jumps slightly, his look of surprise turning to annoyance as he sees who it is. He looks Achilles up and down, but stays firmly put.

Achilles leans in, lowering his voice enough that even Briseis won’t hear him. “C’mon,” He mumbles, his words slurring and warm, not cold and sharp the way they always are the morning after. “Let’s go, yeah?”

There’s a beat of silence that feels like it stretches for an eternity. 

Briseis grabs Patroclus’ arm in a tight grip. Patroclus shakes his head. “I’m going to stay here.” And then in an afterthought that’s more like pity than regret, he mouths  _ sorry. _

Sorry? Why is Patroclus sorry for  him ?

“What?”

Briseis, on the other hand, has no time for pity. “We were just leaving.” Her voice is strained, her eyes fixed on Achilles in an icy glare. “Weren’t we, Pat?”

Patroclus stands up. “Yep.”

Achilles looks back and forth between the two, blinking slowly.  _ Are they together now? Is that it? _ “ _ Fuck _ ,” He hisses under his breath. Why does he even care? “But you-”

“Are these guys bothering you?” One of his friends stumbles in, clamping a hand on his shoulder. Patroclus and Briseis both take a step back; he’s twice their size and more than a little drunk. “No.” They both say quickly. 

“No, they’re not.” Achilles confirms, the edge disappearing from his voice. His friend laughs. “C’mon then! What the fuck are you doing over here with this fag?”

_ Oh.  _ Out of the corner of his eye he sees Patroclus wince and he thinks maybe, just maybe he could punch this guy square in the face. But he can’t, because then they’ll think he’s also...

And clearly Patroclus isn’t interested in him, so why should he care about Patroclus?

So he laughs too loudly and lets himself be pulled off into the crowd. 

When he’s far enough out he turns back and strains his eyes, watching as Patroclus and Briseis walk out.  _ They’re fucking, aren’t they.  _ That’s fine. Patroclus isn’t  _ his _ . It’s good even, because he’s sick of waking up next to Patroclus the morning after and there are a hundred hotter people he could be hooking up with. Hotter  _ girls _ . Speaking of which...

He flirts with a girl from out of state called Katy who’s too loud, too blonde and too perky. She’s talking about her  _ amazing _ holiday at this  _ amazing _ resort in this  _ amazing _ country and he’s a million miles away, nodding and smiling just enough that she’ll think he’s interested. When she finally stops talking he takes her back to his car, and this time he doesn’t have to check who’s looking before he drives away. She gives him a blowjob in his backseat while he looks up at the car roof so he can pretend she’s not there. For a brief moment he thinks that maybe this is a thousand times better than hooking up with Patroclus. 

He wakes up alone the next morning with an even worse headache than all the other times and two texts from Katy, whose number has apparently made its way into his phone. She tells him that she  _ had so much fun last night!  _ and to  _ call me again soon! xoxo _ . He dry-retches into his toilet and when he’s finally done he deletes both the texts and blocks her number.

The morning after has always been the worst part. It just never hurt this bad.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> Swearing, brief mention of homophobia/bullying

It’s too early in the morning, Patroclus thinks. He doesn’t know what it’s too early for, he just knows it’s too early and the sun is too bright and everything is too loud. 

He grabs his phone from his pocket and scrolls absentmindedly, looking at the few messages he’s received overnight, mostly from Briseis. Mostly venting about Achilles. He closes his eyes, listening to the hum of the coffee maker and the faint voice of some weather forecaster. He doesn’t _want_ to think about Achilles at all. He wants to forget Achilles exists, erase his megawatt smile and golden hair from his mind and never have to think about Achilles ever again. He knows Briseis means well, he just thinks spending the next hour having a conversation about how frustrating Achilles is probably won’t help his cause.

He sends her a text back anyway. It is Briseis, after all. He couldn’t ignore her, for better or for worse. A small smile tugs at his lips as he reads her reply. He’s just about to reply back when Menoetius walks in, footsteps heavy on the linoleum.

“Where were you last night?”

Patroclus feels whatever little happiness he had disappear. He resists the urge to make a snarky comment; he knows what happens when he tries to be smart. 

Menoetius takes a step forward. Patroclus flinches. “I was out. At Briseis’.”

His father grins, a sickening smile that Patroclus wants to wipe off his smug face. He hates that he has to use Briseis as his safeguard, and he hates that she probably has to endure the same uncomfortable smiles and crude remarks every time she comes over. 

“Did you try out for football, then?”

“Yes.” _No_. He’s strong enough in his own right, but he knows any of the guys on the football team could flatten him in seconds and he definitely doesn’t want to be in a locker room with them. He knows what they’ll call him both when they think he isn’t looking and when they know he is. An agonizingly long year of gym class, a handful of slurs and a black eye taught him pretty quickly that he wouldn’t be welcome on the football team. But of course, his dad doesn’t need to know that.

His father narrows his eyes. Patroclus quickly looks away, trying to act as interested as he can in his coffee cup.

“You better make the team. Better not end up like last year.” Menoetius heads for the door. “Fuckin’ pathetic.” He says, not quite out of earshot. Not that cares whether or not he’s in earshot.

Patroclus sucks in a breath. He’ll be screwed when the team roster comes out. Either he’ll say he didn’t make the cut and his father will lose it, or he'll say he didn’t try out at all and his father will probably lose it even more. Maybe he’ll get lucky and by then Menoetius will find something else to berate him about.

Maybe he should just leave altogether. It would be easier, so much easier to just run away than to deal with his shitty dad and his shitty home life. He and Briseis could live together, share an apartment. They’d both get cute boyfriends and own a bunch of plants and Patroclus would never have to see Menoetius ever again. 

There’s a part of him that’s reserved for these fantasies, these daydreams where everything works out for once. Daydreams where his father isn’t awful, daydreams where his father doesn’t even exist, daydreams where his mother is still around, and daydreams where he’s normal and he and Briseis are the prom king and prom queen couple. Daydreams where his life is the perfect suburban nuclear family fantasy, not a mess of people who are angry and broken and don’t fit together. He has plenty of daydreams, and there's one in there somewhere where Achilles isn’t so afraid and so frustrating. Where Achilles sweeps him off his feet and they go live somewhere a million miles away.

He has plenty of daydreams. He just knows they’re never going to come true.

There’s never been a time when jumping off a cliff has seemed quite so appealing as when Achilles is trying to finish his biology homework.

The words are swimming, every sentence immediately dissolving from his mind the minute he reads it. He needs to switch his thoughts off for a minute, settle down and focus on his work, but every time he tries he gets distracted. He tosses the textbook across the room in defeat, delighting in the heavy thump it makes when it hits the wall. Science never was his strong suit.

Thetis would probably kill him if she knew he wasn’t studying. If he’s not training, he has to be studying. _You could be great, Achilles. If only you applied yourself._

It’s never enough for her. The test scores, the games - he could score 99% on everything, win every single game, and he still wouldn’t be working hard enough. _Why do you waste your potential?_ She always says, no matter how well he does. He can’t help but wonder why he even bothers, when it’ll never be good enough. He does fine even if he doesn’t train or study, why put in the extra effort?

_Fine is not good. Fine will get you a spot on the team. Good will keep you there. Great will get you a college scholarship, and excellent will let you play professionally. Be the best and they’ll remember you long after you retire._

He isn’t allowed to be okay, or good. He has to be the _best_.

Of course, he isn’t the only one whose parents pressure them (or parent singular, because his father has never pushed him this hard). But it isn’t just his parents who want him to go above and beyond. Everyone, his teachers, his coach, even his friends - they all seem to have impossibly high expectations of him. He’s expected to be better than everyone else, and anytime he does anything less they start asking him if he’s okay and if something’s wrong. As if he can’t only be _okay_ at something.

His phone buzzes. He fumbles around, finally pulling it out from under his notebook.

**Agamemnon,** **4:26 pm:** _u should come over to my house tonight_

 **Agamemnon, 4:26 pm** **:** _it’ll just be the football team and some other friends_

 **Agamemnon, 4:27 pm** **:** _u in?_

He rolls his eyes. From experience, Agamemnon’s parties are mediocre at best and he’s not sure he wants to sit through three hours of shit-talking and watching his teammates challenge each other to the stupidest things. But, it’s either that or the biology homework.

Thetis would _definitely_ kill him if she knew he was ditching studying (for a subject he’s almost failing, nonetheless) to go hang out with some friends. _Screw that_ , he thinks as he gets ready to go. If he’s never going to be good enough regardless, is there any reason to even try?

As expected, Agamemnon’s party is far from fun. Agamemnon’s house is massive, but apart from the fancy architecture and the huge flatscreen TVs Achilles can’t find anything good about spending his evening there. Agamemnon is obnoxiously loud, as always. He claps Achilles on the back too hard and pushes him towards the rest of the guys, and Achilles thinks, _well, could be worse._

Most of the team are apparently in a heated debate about the hottest girls in school, although Achilles zones out before he can hear them come to a conclusion. Once they’re finally bored of discussing the hotness of girls Achilles hardly knows, they make stupid faces and ask in stupid voices how it was hooking up with Katy, and it takes him far too long to remember who the hell Katy even _is_. By the time he realises she’s the girl from the party Agamemnon’s already made a joke about him getting so many girls he can’t even remember who’s who.

“Are you one of those guys who won’t hook up with a girl more than twice, or something?” And he hadn’t even realised that was something he did. He’d had a couple of girlfriends beforehand, but in the past year the longest he had stuck with a girl was about a month. Mostly he just went with whoever happened to be in his general line of vision when he felt like flirting with someone, and then never saw them again. 

Well, apart from-

Apart from Patroclus.

Patroclus doesn’t count though. Or maybe he just doesn’t _want_ Patroclus to count. He tries to remember how long they’ve been hooking up for - only a week or two, right? He quickly does the math in his head.

It’s been a month and a half. At _least_.

 _That’s not right._ But it is, he’s never been so sure of something in his life. He feels his insides twist at the realization of how long it's truly been.

“You alright?” Agamemnon nudges him, a smug smile plastered on his face. 

_No no no no no._ “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. I’m just going to...” He scans the room, looking for an excuse so he can leave. “I’m just going to get another drink.”

It shouldn’t be a big deal. He’s just making it a big deal. A month, two months, it’s nothing, and they’re not even doing it anymore.

He stumbles over the couch, his mind going a mile a minute. He can’t _think_ . He barely lets himself breathe until he finally reaches a deserted spot outside. He grabs his phone, scanning the contacts as he scrolls down to _P_. He spots Patroclus’ number and presses on it, not even pausing to think about why he and Patroclus ever exchanged numbers in the first place. He presses call and waits.

Patroclus picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, it’s uh… fuck- it’s me, okay?”

“I know.”

“Can I… can I pick you up? _Please?_ ”

Achilles bounces his leg up and down, anything to distract himself from thinking.

“...Okay.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Patroclus doesn’t know why he didn’t just hang up the phone then and there. 

As he sits on his front porch, tracing circles on the dusty wood with his finger, he thinks that this is probably going to be a contender for one of his stupidest decisions yet. 

He’s not sure he could’ve just hung up, though. Achilles sounded so agitated Patroclus was more focused on making sure he wasn’t about to jump off a bridge than thinking about what was the ‘right’ thing to do. Maybe he did kind of hate Achilles. It didn’t mean he wanted him to go off and do something stupid.

The evening sun is glaring in his eyes, bathing the street in a golden yellow. There’s a burning feeling in his stomach that he can’t place, something between anger and happiness - he doesn’t know which would be a worse feeling to have. He isn’t sure what the appropriate reaction even is. He isn’t sure if he likes this situation or not, and it isn’t helping that he keeps thinking about his promise to Briseis.

_You promised. You promised her you wouldn’t keep seeing Achilles._

_But it’s only one time…_

Achilles’ car pulls up on the street. Patroclus waits to see if he’ll actually get out, even though he knows Achilles won’t step foot out of that car. Finally, he gets up and shuffles towards the car.

“How’s it going,” He mumbles. Achilles looks surprised that he’s even speaking; they've gotten used to doing things in silence. If they talk, if they have friendly conversation, it means there could be something more to their relationship than just casual hookups. 

Maybe Patroclus wants there to be something more.

Achilles grips the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles going white. “I don’t want to talk.”

Maybe Patroclus should’ve stayed quiet.

“What _do_ you want then?” Patroclus asks, an edge creeping into his voice. And Patroclus doesn’t know why he’s asking, he already _knows_ , but for once he’d like Achilles to say it aloud. To acknowledge him. To acknowledge _them_.

Achilles turns to him. Their eyes meet, and Patroclus feels a shiver go up his spine. It’s the first time it really feels like Achilles is seeing him, not just looking through him. It's a feeling he could get used to.

“Don’t…” Achilles sighs. “Don’t make me say it.”

It shouldn’t be good enough. _I shouldn’t even be here_ , Patroclus thinks, but he’s already in the car and Achilles is beginning to drive away and he isn’t sure he can be bothered to get out. And a small part of him is still saying the same things as always. _This is the best you're going to get._

So he stays quiet even though he wants to say a million things and he stays still even though he wants to pull Achilles forward and kiss some sense into him. It'll have to be good enough. It _is_ good enough. For him.

When he finally parks the car Achilles has replayed what's about to happen so many times that he's forgotten how to think about anything else.

Patroclus watches as he slowly turns the car off and unbuckles his seatbelt, waiting for him to make the first move.

_I can't do this._

“Are you… is everything okay?” Patroclus asks. 

_Yes, you can._ Achilles leans forward and kisses him, rough and needy. “I’m fine.” He mutters, his words muffled as he kisses Patroclus again.

Patroclus pulls back. “Achilles, you don’t have to do this. Nobody’s forcing you. I don’t care if you decide not to.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t act as though you’re my therapist, or some shit.” He leans in again, but Patroclus pushes him away.

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to feel like I’m forcing you into this every time.”

Achilles feels a familiar weight settle back on his shoulders. He needs Patroclus to shut up, to stop trying to psychoanalyze him so they can go back to making out and Achilles can get everything out of his system. If he’s fast enough, if he doesn’t freak out like every other time, if he can get this over with, maybe he won’t ever think about doing it again. He grabs Patroclus by the collar, tugging him forward.

“I want to do this.” He says, trying to make himself sound positive, but the confidence is gone. He’s not sure he even believes what he’s saying. He doesn’t care. 

“I don’t think you do.” Patroclus turns away, his eyes fixated on the sunset ahead. “Because every time we do this, you decide ten minutes in that you don’t want anything to do with me.”

Achilles feels his face burn up. He hates what Patroclus is saying, and he hates that it’s true. “Are you and Briseis together? Is that why you’re not doing this?”

“No! Jesus, Achilles, I don’t want to do this because I know you don’t want to! I don’t know what... _issues_ you have going on, but you’re not going to fix it like this.” Patroclus pulls open the car door. "I'm not doing this anymore." 

"Wait-" Patroclus gives him one last stare, his dark eyes burning a hole directly into Achilles’ heart.

“Don’t call me again.” He slams the door shut, the harsh sound echoing in Achilles’ mind.

The silence that follows is ten times worse. 

He thought, if he kissed Patroclus hard enough, if they had sex, he’d get rid of his fantasies and thoughts and he’d go back to being normal. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go through with it, but he had hoped that if he pushed himself hard enough he’d just do it and he’d be able to never think about Patroclus ever again. It all sounded so simple when he laid it out like that.

It wasn’t nearly as simple when he actually tried to do it. 

He feels something breaking inside of him. It’s rising to the surface, these thoughts he doesn’t want to have and these feelings he doesn’t want to feel. With shaking fingers he grabs an old CD out and puts it in the player, putting the car into reverse and backing out onto the road as he waits for the song to play. He turns the volume up as high as it can go. He needs to feel the music with every inch of his body; maybe then he’ll forget about everything else.

He drives as fast as he can stomach. The music pounds in his ears, the lyrics carving themselves into his mind, the rhythm leaking into his brain. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs. _You ruined everything. You fucked this up. You’ve fucked everything up._ He pushes down on the accelerator. It’s getting closer, this thing that he doesn’t want to think about, and he needs to go faster before it catches up to him.

He can’t _do this_ anymore. He slams on the brakes and pulls the car over. He smacks his hands against the steering wheel, a dull pain stretching over his palms. 

He likes Patroclus. 

In a real way, not in the bullshit _Let’s make out once a week_ way. Which means he likes boys. Or, at least, he likes _one_ boy.

And it’s so obvious, he doesn’t know how he’s been so blind to it. He thinks he must have always known, which only makes it hurt worse. He can’t tell what was easier; pretending his feelings didn’t exist or realising they actually do. He unbuckles his seatbelt, trying to get rid of the heavy weight sitting on his chest. It’s as if the world is collapsing in on him, pushing itself into this one tiny space.

He actually likes Patroclus. There’s almost something funny about it, when he thinks about it. Not that he’s laughing. 

He’s definitely not laughing.

He needs to do _something_ . He doesn’t know what, he just needs to do something, anything that’s not just sitting in a parked car while music plays, feeling like the entire world is ending. He feels so angry and desperate and confused all at once, and he can’t _do_ anything with it. He closes his eyes tight, trying to do the breathing exercises he learned years ago.

_Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in…_

His thoughts won’t _stop_. He imagines it so clearly, what could’ve happened. Patroclus would’ve stayed in the car. They’d put on some music that wasn’t so melodramatic, and Achilles would’ve given Patroclus a real kiss, nice and slow and deep, the kind of kiss he was so desperate to give all the other times. Then at some point Patroclus would give him a look and he’d unzip Patroclus’ jeans and…

But instead, he messed everything up. He buries his head in his arms.

_I am so screwed._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... after a rather long hiatus period, I've finally updated! I do want to apologise for the lack of posting - I kind of wrote myself into a corner with the last chapter, and then writer's block hit me HARD. I've got some of my motivation back so hopefully won't be doing any super long breaks again, but equally there may be a slight gap between this chapter and the next as I work out through some kinks in the story. Also, another quick apology - I feel like the past few chapters have been a little repetitive with their content, and as this one is kind of just filler it's a bit the same, but it's not going to be stuck like this forever - there is actually going to be more content than Achilles just having bad coping mechanisms lol, I just needed to write myself back into a place where I could make that happen first. Hopefully this chapter is still pretty decent, and I'll see you soon :)

Drink to forget, and then drink some more. If Achilles doesn’t die of alcohol poisoning by age twenty, he’ll consider it a miracle.

The drinks burn his throat and the lights are too bright and he couldn’t tell you whose party this was if you put a gun to his head. He’s surrounded by a sea of people and he still feels completely alone. Not that it matters, of course. Whatever coherent thoughts he has left are all focused on Patroclus, and he’ll have to drink himself into oblivion or die trying if he wants that to stop.

He can still feel Patroclus' touch and warmth searing his skin. It's as if his acknowledgement of his feelings has suddenly opened the floodgates and now he can't think of anything else. It's so stupid, this _thing_ he has for Patroclus, but he doesn't know how to stop thinking about it. It's an itch he has to scratch, even though he knows that it won't do him any favours by spending all his time visualising Patroclus' expression as he slammed the car door, or the way Patroclus tensed away from him like he was something to be afraid of, or how empty everything has felt since.

 _Not getting what you want sucks_ , he thinks briefly as he fills up his plastic cup again. And that's the worst thing. It does suck - he's just never learnt how to deal with it. He's always had everything he's wanted.

_Not anymore._

He drifts in and out of the crowd, searching for a glimpse of Patroclus. He doubts Patroclus is even here, but he won’t let that stop him from looking. He doesn't even know what he'd say if they saw each other. _Sorry would be a good start_ , he thinks, but he's not even sure how he could begin to apologise, whether it would even make a difference. 

As he’s trying to get outside he walks straight into a guy who, with some dark lighting and a bit of squinting, looks vaguely like Patroclus, and Achilles is so tired and frustrated just the thought makes him want to cry.

“Move.” Not-Patroclus grumbles. For a second Achilles thinks he even _sounds_ like Patroclus, and he's far too drunk to know better anyway.

Achilles looks him up and down. “Blow me.”

And so Not-Patroclus does.

Not-Patroclus turns out to be pretty good at giving head and really good at shutting the hell up so Achilles can pretend Actual-Patroclus is there instead. 

When they finish, Not-Patroclus tells him to cut his hair, lights a cigarette, and then breathes ribbons of smoke down his lungs when they kiss. He tries to tell Not-Patroclus to fuck off, but it’s surprisingly hard to string together coherent sentences when you’re sprawled out on the tiled bathroom floor and trying much harder not to pass out.

“You’re wasted,” Not-Patroclus says matter-of-factly as he washes his hands in the grimy bathroom sink.

Achilles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s… that’s the point. ”

Not-Patroclus leans against the doorway and stares at his cigarette. “If there’s something going on, drinking won't fix your problems.”

“Well, it can sure as hell try.” Achilles looks up at the ceiling, eyes following a crack that stretches all the way from one corner to another. He feels like he’s fading out of existence. Everything’s spinning out of control and there’s nothing for him to grab onto.

“I think I might be dying,” He mutters. 

Not-Patroclus shakes his head. “We’re all dying. You just have to figure out how to make it seem like you’re living. This,” He waves his hand around vaguely, “the drinking and the partying, it’s only going to kill you faster.”  He offers a hand to Achilles. “You’re not going to die at a stupid party, I can promise you that. C’mon. Let’s go call someone to pick you up and get you out of here.” 

Not-Patroclus hauls him upwards. "Who can come and get you?” 

Almost all of his friends are equally wasted, and he doubts the ones who aren’t drunk at this party will want to come and drive his sorry ass home. He shuts his eyes, trying to run over a mental list of who’s left.

“There is… one person.” He mumbles. “But I don’t want to call him.”

“What’s his number? I can talk to him for you.”

Achilles sucks in a breath. He types the number into Not-Patroclus’ phone before collapsing back onto the floor and putting his head in his hands. If he's lucky, maybe the call will go straight to voicemail. 

The car pulls up to the house half an hour later, by which time Achilles has thrown up once, drunkenly apologised to Not-Patroclus twice and almost started crying three times. He’s trying to keep himself steady, averting his eyes from Patroclus’ darkened expression that he can just make out through the windshield. “Your ride’s here,” Not-Patroclus says, as if Achilles can’t see for himself. Well. He can hardly see straight, so maybe he did need the reminder. 

“Say thanks to him, okay? From me too.” Not-Patroclus gives Achilles a quick pat on the back and slips away into the party just as quickly as he appeared.

Achilles yells out a thank you that gets lost in the noises of the crowd. At least someone is looking out for him. He stumbles forward to the car and slowly takes a seat.

He’s not sure just saying  _ thank you _ is going to cover it. Any of it.

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.”

And isn’t that the furthest thing from the truth. 

Out of all the crap Patroclus’ dad would say when he was young, the one sentiment that came out of his father’s mouth the most was  _ “Man up! Get some backbone! You’re a man, not a goddamn doormat!” _ Ironic, considering if he ever even thought about standing up to  Menoetius… well, he knows exactly how that would go down. 

It’s a rare time when he thinks his dad might have been right.

A smarter version of him would’ve told Achilles to find someone else to pick him up at three in the morning. The nicer version of him knows there’s no way he could’ve left Achilles alone, drunk and high, without any sober rides home.

The self-respecting version of himself would’ve never given Achilles his phone number in the first place.

Achilles has gone silent, and it’s taking all of Patroclus’ willpower not to turn over and look at him every five seconds to make sure he hasn’t passed out or something, partially because Patroclus is getting sick of playing babysitter and mostly because he doesn’t want to crash his father’s car. They’ve been driving for ten minutes when Achilles sits up and groans.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles again. His eyes are red and rimmed with tears, his voice thick and low and heavy.

“You already said that.”

“No, I know, but… fuck, I’m such an idiot. I keep screwing up. You think that, right? You probably think I’m a screw-up.” 

He’s also still  _ really _ drunk. “You’re the school’s best football player. You can’t be that much of a screw-up.” Patroclus says sarcastically.

“Yeah, but. You hate me. My mom hates me.  Shit,” Achilles clamps a hand over his mouth. “My mom is going to  _ kill _ me.  _ Fuck me _ .” He whines.

See, here would be the time to be quiet. Here would be the time to let Achilles deal with his issues on his own instead of constantly having someone help him. 

Patroclus sighs. “You can come over to my place, I guess. My dad isn’t home or anything.” 

Achilles bites his lip. “No, shit, no... You already came and got me, I’m not- I don’t need you to also let me stay over. I don’t need any more help. I can handle myself.” 

“You’re totally wasted. You can’t go home like that.” Achilles still looks pained, like he can’t quite figure out whether Patroclus is just messing with him. 

“It’s okay. I don’t… yeah, it’s fine.”

There’s a small voice in his head, crude and loud and crueller than anyone he’s ever met, one that takes moments like this to remind his just how stupid he really is. It’s louder than ever now, hissing menacing words into his ear, and Patroclus realises how much it sounds like his dad.  _ Pathetic, stupid, what are you doing?  _ The voice yells, and Patroclus thinks that if he had a dollar every time he asked himself that question, he’d have enough money to get the hell out of this stupid town.

Achilles makes a noise that seems to translate somewhere between  _ thanks  _ and  _ I might throw up _ , and Patroclus pushes down on the accelerator. Time for him to make some excuses of his own, he thinks. The real reason he wants to get home so quickly is because he knows it’ll be a pain in the ass to clean someone else’s vomit off the backseat of the car, and it has nothing at all to do with the pang of worry he feels seeing Achilles look so sick. Yeah, that’s good enough.

He thinks about trying to explain this, any of this, to anyone that wasn’t him or Achilles, and winces at how utterly ridiculous it would probably sound. It’s as if no matter how hard they try, they can’t stop from poking holes in this poorly constructed story they’ve been telling themselves.  _ Maybe one day, I’ll just rip it right open. Expose everything and force us both to deal with it,  _ Patroclus thinks.

_ Yeah, right. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... I'm back! Yeah, turns out I haven't abandoned this fic after all? 
> 
> I made a playlist of songs that remind me of Achilles and Pat, that remind me of this fic, and that I listen to whilst writing this, in case you're interested. You can find it here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/133uoMVHcJ3D0xjswKAINm?si=82dba1697b20463d
> 
> Also: thanks so much for all the support this fic has gotten!! Who would've thought this random, very inconsistently published fic would've gotten any attention (lmao), but I'm so happy you guys like it. It really means a lot :) If you wanna talk to me or maybe even have requests for things you want me to write, my tumblr's linked in my bio. Once again, thank you, and enjoy :)
> 
> ***  
> Content warning: homophobic slurs, brief mention of violence

Patroclus’ house is eerily silent without his father’s presence haunting the doorways or sleeping on the couch. The air of anger and fear that usually hangs over the rooms like a dark cloud has faded, and he revels gratefully in the silence. For a moment he almost forgets that he's got a drunk Achilles in tow - for a moment, nobody exists except him and the silence.

Once he gets his bearings Patroclus finally looks over the Achilles, who’s sitting hunched over on the floor and attempting to untie his shoes. He scratches the back of his neck and waits for Achilles to look up at him.

“I’m going to go to bed, so we should, um, probably set up a place for you to sleep.” 

“Oh.” Achilles stares blankly, and then hesitantly nods towards the living room. “I could sleep on the couch?”

Patroclus almost wants to agree, but his mind quickly flashes to the possibility that his dad might come stumbling home early and open the door to find a random boy sleeping in their living room. His dad is unpredictable at the best of times, and the last thing he needs is his dad yelling at Achilles at five in the morning after spending a solid week out drinking with his buddies. So Patroclus shakes his head and motions to the stairs.

“My dad might come home early, and I don’t want you to end up getting yelled at if he sees you, so…” Patroclus feels his cheeks tinge pink and silently thanks himself for not turning on the lights. 

“I guess I could sleep in your bedroom? On the floor, of course.” Achilles adds hurriedly. Patroclus nods, grateful that he’s not being made to say the words himself. They walk silently upstairs.

Patroclus pulls a few pillows and blankets from his bed and tries to set it up in a comfortable place on the floor. “That’s good, thanks,” Achilles says, even though he’s not looking. His eyes are tracing a crack that's stretching across the wall, careful to avoid Patroclus or the makeshift bed.

They get ready to sleep, awkwardly stepping around the uncomfortable silence that’s descended between them. Patroclus lies back in his bed and closes his eyes, trying to keep his breathing steady. It’s only when he hears the quiet sound of Achilles snoring that he himself can finally fall into a restless sleep. He spends the whole night hovering on the verge of waking, Achilles’ presence on his mind even when he isn’t conscious enough to realise it.

When Patroclus wakes up the next morning, Achilles is gone. The pillows are stacked neatly beside his bed, the clumsily folded sheets draped over the end of his bed frame. Patroclus surveys his bedroom with sleepy eyes but apart from the remnants of where he slept on the floor, there’s no indication that Achilles was ever there at all.

Patroclus closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

For two months, they don’t talk. There’s no secretive meet-ups at parties, no agitated late-night calls, no quick glances in the hallways. They’re good at playing pretend, Achilles and Patroclus, and they use it to their advantage, pretending that nothing ever happened between them. 

Patroclus doesn’t think about it. He won’t _let_ himself think about it. It was for the best, it really was. There was nowhere for them to go but under - it was almost like they were drowning, pushing each other further and further down as they tried to swim up for air. If they’d stayed together, Patroclus knows, they would’ve pulled each other under. 

Because that’s what their ‘relationship’ (not that it ever was a real relationship) felt like; drowning. But there’s a gnawing part of him that keeps whispering, _Maybe we were drowning, but at least we were drowning together. Now you’re alone, and you’re sinking under._

Patroclus tries not to think about it. He goes to school as if the past few months had never happened, trying to fade into the background more than ever before. He thinks he’s gotten pretty good at it, too. He’s trying to fly under the radar as much as possible before graduation, because he’s smart enough to realise that all he can do is try and survive until the moment when he can get the hell out of there. In fact, Patroclus gets so good at it that in the two months after he and Achilles go cold turkey, no-contact on one another, he manages to go largely unnoticed by everyone around him, until…

It’s a Friday afternoon, and Patroclus is a little more than exhausted. His dad had spent the better part of the night before yelling at him for reasons never explained, and his day had been filled with the constant urge to fall asleep in class and stern talking-tos by teachers who never seemed to like him much anyway. By the time lunch ends the thought of attending yet another class that he won’t be paying attention to seems absurd and exhausting. Halfway to his next lesson Patroclus stops dead in the hallway, lets out a mental _fuck it_ and turns around to head towards the toilets. He doesn’t usually make a habit of skipping class, but he figures if ever he’s earned the right to ditch, it's now. 

Patroclus wanders into the grimy bathroom and stands still in the corner for a moment, trying to figure out where to go next - after all, his father gets angry at him for coming home when he’s _supposed to_ , so there’s no telling what would happen if he ditched school and arrived home two hours early. He’s debating which place will be best to kill time when a low chuckle cuts through his train of thought.

“Hey, fag! The fuck are you doing in here?”

Patroclus feels his blood run cold. He’s been in this situation enough times before to guess what’s going to happen before he’s even seen the face of the guy who’s yelling at him. He looks up just slightly to see one of the resident dumb jocks and a couple of his friends crowding the bathroom exit, cocky grins on each one of their faces.

“I said, what the fuck are you doing in here?” The leader takes a few steps forward, his ugly grin turning into a death stare. Patroclus stays silent. It's his best option, not that there's really much of a choice. They'll beat him up no matter what he says, so why not be quiet?

“Trying to meet up with your boyfriend, huh? Yeah, we heard you’re into that stuff, you fuckin’ fag.” He spits the words out so angrily Patroclus flinches at the sound. “Do you know what we do to faggots like you?” He hisses, getting closer.

Patroclus knows well enough. He closes his eyes and waits, bracing himself for the impact that’s inevitably going to come. He doubles over at the first punch, and just when he thinks they’ll give him another he hears a more familiar voice break through the noise, cold and commanding.

“Get the _fuck_ off of him.”

Patroclus opens his eyes again. In the blurry distance he can make out the face - it’s Achilles.

It’s _Achilles_.

The guys step back slowly, their respect for Achilles outweighing their anger at Patroclus. Their ringleader grits his teeth. “Why are you defending this-” He starts, before Achilles grabs him by the collar.

“Out. _Now_.” The other guy scowls but steps back, skulking out of the bathroom with his group of cronies huddled behind him. When the door finally shuts Achilles drops down to Patroclus side, concern spreading across his face.

“Are you okay? What did they do?” Patroclus glances up and down his own body for the first time. There’s probably a nice bruise spreading on the front of his torso and there’s a couple of scratches on his arms, but otherwise, he’s gotten off easy; clearly there was more damage to come, worse hits to give. He waves Achilles off and stands up, trying to play off the aching he feels.

“It’s fine. They didn’t do anything.” Patroclus grabs his backpack from its discarded position on the floor. “I’m okay.” He mumbles. It’s unconvincing, he knows, but he couldn’t care less. He’s just happy they didn’t hurt him more.

“Those guys are idiots, they’re total idiots. I’m sorry, I should’ve-” Patroclus gives him a long look, as if to say Y _eah, but those idiots are your friends. Those idiots are your teammates, they go to your parties, they sit next to you at the lunch table. You belong to them._

“It’s fine, Achilles.” Patroclus says, his voice flat and final. Achilles looks at him helplessly, his eyes conveying a message he can’t say.

_How can I help you?_

Patroclus turns away. Achilles is looking for forgiveness. He wants Patroclus to absolve him of guilt, but Patroclus isn’t going to give him the satisfaction. There’s only one way he can do better, and Patroclus hopes he’s reading the message loud and clear.

_Stop hanging out with assholes like that._

The next week when Patroclus takes a seat at the lunch table next to Briseis, someone else comes to sit across from them. Patroclus looks up to see Achilles, lunch tray in hand, sitting down at their table, like it’s a thing they do every day. Patroclus glances over to Achilles’ usual table to see a mix of confused and pissed off faces staring back at him, all wondering why Achilles has moved to a table where nobody else bothers to sit. 

For the rest of lunch Achilles silently eats with them, but his gesture speaks for him. It’s a formal message back to Patroclus, the words clear as day.

_I’m not with those guys anymore._


End file.
